Sweeter Shockwaves
by Britpacker
Summary: Trip comes to a startling realisation when he finds Malcolm in pain in his cabin. Post ep "Shockwave Pt II". Tucker/Reed slash


Author's Notes: They're still Paramount's. I still do this for love, not reward. Set in the aftermath of "Shockwave Parts 1 & 2" and told from Trip's point of view.

Sweeter Shockwaves

We got the ship back. My legs might be about to melt into the deck plating but it doesn't matter – I don't even care if T'Pol sees me shaking, because it's a human reaction and I've never been more proud to be just that. Fake reactor breaches – they work every time. Bunch of ugly green sissies. Running away from nothing.

Now all we've got to do is get the Captain back from the 31st century. And if the Vulcan says anything about time travel being impossible, I'm going to toss her out the first airlock we pass. I just hope those vicious little sonsofbitches remembered to take Daniels' fancy piece of future tech when they went scurrying on their asses to their own ships. Leaving it behind when we went to so much trouble to hand it to them is just the kind of sneaky nasty thing they'd go and do.

Hoshi and Travis have made it to the bridge before us, me stepping back like the gentleman I am to allow a lady off the lift first. My eyes go automatically to the tactical station, and when I see the great big gaping empty chair, my heart just falls into my boots. How could I have forgotten about him?

Malcolm.

My mouth's so dry it's all I can do to get the words out, and before T'Pol's even started to nod permission I'm back in the lift, hitting the button for B deck hard enough to bust it and not caring. My hand's trembling as I pull out my scanner, cussing like old Grandpa Johnson on a hungover _morning after_ when a stack of useless damn human biosigns flare up across the screen. Please be okay, Malcolm. I swear if those sadistic green shape-shifting bastards have harmed you, I'll chase every last one to the other side of eternity - and back again.

There's a human biosign in his cabin. He's alive, and he's here.

His door swims and blurs like one of those Dali canvases where everything's kind of melting. Keying in my override shouldn't take this damn long!

"Malcolm!"

He's just dumped on the floor like a sack of cabbages that's just been dropped off the back of a grubby old pickup, one arm bent awkwardly over his body as if he's trying to hug himself better. There's a nasty red smear on the carpet by his chin, and I don't need Phlox to tell me it's blood.

A Niagara Falls of rage crashes over me. The next Suliban I see, whether he was part of Silik's gang or not, I'm going to rip off his balls with my bare hands.

"'m all right." He tries to hide his damaged face, but Momma didn't raise no fools, and I'm not letting him get away with it. I'm so scared of hurting him I daren't do more than rest the flat of my hand against his hair, but it gets the message through. I know _All right_ is one step down from _Fine_ in Reed-speak.

It means he feels like hell.

And he couldn't even get the words out right because his lip's shredded where he's bitten down; there's a black stain coming through on his jaw to match the purple-grey-yellow swellings around both slitted, glassy eyes. There's a gash above the right eye and a stain spoiling that delicately-chiselled cheekbone, and by the way he's holding himself, even in a heap on the deck, he's nursing a couple of cracked ribs at the least.

How long has he been lying here, helpless, hurt and alone? How long since they finished beating him to this bloody pulp and heaved him back in here, too weak even to crawl off the floor to bed? And how long will it take me to chase Silik down and break every tiny bone in his worthless skinny body?

Okay Trip, keep your cool. Hit the comm, call Phlox, was that really me sounding so high and screechy, 'cause it sounded more like Lizzie, age seven. Malcolm's wincing and I figure it's against my abuse of his eardrums, so as I deactivate my link to Sickbay and crumple onto the deck beside him. Why can't I stop my hand reaching out to run through his sweaty, messy hair?

There's a deep achy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a Klingon reaching into my chest to squeeze my heart in his fist. My eyes are burning but I know I can't cry. He'd hate that, and I know our resident stoic Brit well enough to know when he'd be squirming with embarrassment if it wouldn't make every bone and muscle in his tight, cute body scream even more.

Woah there, Tucker. _Cute body? _The stress of the last few days has gotten to you worse than you thought.

My hand's stilled in his hair. Malcolm's breathing hitches. "It's okay, buddy. Phlox is comin'. We'll getcha to Sickbay an' let the menagerie loose. You'll be on your feet in no time, you hear me?" I whisper. My fingers have disconnected themselves from my central nervous system because they've resumed that gentle stroking motion. I know that because I can feel the satiny strands of his hair slide against them like the softest animal pelt.

Funny. I always thought it'd be so stiff and unbending, like his strict military attitude. Um, did I just admit to thinking about touching another man's hair?

I'll think of anything if it takes my mind off the state of Malcolm Reed's battered face. Those bruises are getting angrier by the minute, and those incredible, ever-changing eyes are disappearing beneath puffy swellings. When he coughs, his whole body judders, and yes – there's a drop of blood, bright and brilliant, in the spittle that coats his bottom lip.

I wipe it clean with my cuff and he jerks, making me wince in sympathy with his damaged ribs. "Hey, it's okay," I whisper, watching fascinated as my fingers rub along the strong line of his jaw. "Can you make it to bed with help?"

His throat convulses. "Possibly," he croaks, shuffling himself into a half-sitting position. It's not much, but I can get my arm around him and this would be one helluva lot easier if my stomach wasn't fluttering with a whole aviary of goddamn eagles every time my skin brushes his!

Oh, boy. Haven't I just gone and done what I swore I'd never do again. Women are – and Johnny would laugh his butt off to hear this – so much easier to deal with than men when a guy falls in love with them.

After Christian I swore – _never again_. Never had any trouble holding to that 'til now.

'Til Malcolm.

"Trip?"

His glassy eyes are barely focussing, but the concern in his voice is sharp and real. That's my boy, putting himself last like always I think as I heft him, almost carrying him to his bunk. I'm so caught up in it – the feel and smell of him in my arms, the warmth that radiates off of him, the strength still so obvious in his battered body – that I don't even notice when he's laid down, one arm still held taut across his ribcage. Where the hell is Phlox? Did he stop to make dinner on the way to B deck?

"Uh, yeah, sorry. Want some water?"

Relief crashed over me as he nods; not because he needs hydrating, but because it gives me an excuse to put some space between us. I almost bolt into the bathroom, throwing some cold water over my face before filling a glass for him. He's the one likely concussed from a beating, but it's my head doing the carousel ride. Everything's suddenly so clear, and I can't handle this now!

He's rubbing a hand over his middle in slow circles when I get back, visibly forcing himself to breathe deeply. "What's the damage?" I ask, pushing the glass to his mouth before he can form an answer. 'Cause I don't want to hear how badly he's hurting.

Seems there's a lot of things I can't handle right now. Some Starfleet officer!

"Couple of kicks to the ribs – don't think there's anything broken." He sounds wheezy so I dribble a little more water over his tongue. That makes him cough and clutch himself harder. Shit.

Fingers and thumbs. Maybe I should stick to inanimate objects.

"Fucking granite boots," he sputters, and behind the swelling I know his eyes are trying to widen in shock that he's just sworn in front of a superior officer. Like he's never heard me using that language and worse on duty!

"Relax, Mal." He grimaces every time I use that nickname, but if he really hated it I'd know. "This is Trip, not _Commaaander Tucker_, an' even T'Pol'd be swearin' in your boots. 'Bout time you showed up, Doc!"

"Excuse us, Commander." He's come fully equipped, with a couple of orderlies and a trolley for the patient and everything. The look he gives me as his most difficult patient tries to clamber off his bunk unaided is a perfect mix of frustration and affection. I'm guessing mine's about the same.

"C'mon, Lieutenant," I snarl, knowing sympathy will break me even if it don't bug the hell, in his weakened state, out of Malcolm. With an arm under his tight shoulders I manoeuvre him across onto the stretcher Cutler's lowered to bunk-height, close enough to feel his pained intake of breath as he catches sight of his fuzzy reflection in the polished bulkhead. I move to block the view with my shoulder, but who am I kidding? Malcolm's way too quick.

One corner of his mouth's trying to twitch up into that cute little lopsided smile/smirk thing but it's so swollen it gets stuck halfway. "You did say it could get ugly," he murmurs.

I can feel my hand moving, but it's not until it grabs his I realise where it's been headed. "Dontcha worry 'bout a thing, Mister Reed," I murmur. Did my voice just break on his name? Hell, I don't care. "Phlox'll have you lookin' pretty as ever in no time - right, Doc?"

"The facial damage is superficial, Lieutenant, and there's extensive bruising to your ribs." Tell us something we hadn't guessed. Malcolm's smiling at me again – well, he's trying to, and that's the same thing, right?

"I didn't realise you consider me _pretty_, Commander," he coos.

Lucky bastard. At least under all that bruising he can blush without sharp-eyed, way too bold ensigns seeing. Me? I'm practically glowing, and Liz Cutler would be rubbing her hands with glee if they weren't needed to clean up Malcolm's cuts as he's rolled out into the corridor.

She's too easy to outstare this time. Guess she remembers who was standing on the other side of the mess hall door after the captain's "surprise" birthday party last month when she and Hoshi were having a drunken swoon over Lieutenant Reed and his gorgeous eyes/fabulous cheekbones/pretty eyelashes.

I daren't remember the rest. Let's just say those ladies got more explicit the lower down they got. I'm glad I didn't hear what they'd have to say about his cute little toes.

At the time I thought the lurch in my guts was down to an undercooked burger.

"Hey, I got eyes you know, Loo-tenant." Phlox is hustling us through Enterprise's corridors, he's strapped to a trolley and I'm holding his hand. This is some kind of weird dream, right?

No, because the screech of the comm. would've brought me back, sweating and shaking, to my own bed. "T'Pol to Commander Tucker. A Suliban vessel is approaching."

Jon? Or Silik, pissed that he's been outsmarted by a bunch of primitives? I need to be on the bridge.

"Go." His fingers squeeze mine and it's like his strength flows through them into me. "See you later?"

It's shy, and that's what gets me right in the heart, forcing the confession I've been fighting to block. I love him. Probably have for a while.

Suddenly I'm feeling like a high school boy facing his prom date. And the date's dad. But I can't stop myself smiling.

"You bet. Don't give the doc any trouble, y'understand?"

"Aye, Commander." He brings his free hand up in a cadet-smart salute that makes Cutler grin. "Shouldn't you be rescuing the captain?"

"Okay, I'm goin'." It's lucky I could find my way around this baby blindfold, 'cause my mind's gone walkabout and if I make the bridge anytime this week I won't be taking credit for it.

He knows. He's always known, I guess. Malcolm's real observant in that quiet way of his.

If Admiral Forrest could see the chief engineer of the flagship dancing his way down a deserted corridor whooping up a storm he'd most likely go up in smoke – right after firing the guy who did my psych review. And I don't care.

Because I believe Malcolm loves me. When we get Johnny back he'll make Command see the Vulcans are wrong and the mission should go on. Just listen to me, coming over Mr Optimistic!

Guess that's what being in love does for a guy. I like it.

* * *

Johnny's safe and we're heading toward home to have the talk with Daddy Forrest and kindly ol' Uncle Soval. Even T'Pol's tense as a zebra ringed by lions. I think she's really on our side this time. Never thought I'd be saying this even to myself, but she's loyal to Jon, and I can forgive her being a patronising pain in the ass ninety percent of the time for that.

Hell, I'll forgive anyone anything, so long as Malcolm's not having second thoughts in Sickbay.

I wanted to go see him as soon as Johnny was aboard, but no – T'Pol told the Cap'n a crewman had sustained _minor injuries_ and that sent Captain Guilt-Trip running down to wring his hands and apologise over the biobed. If he thinks he feels bad, he wants to try standing in my shoes. Malcolm volunteered – even out-Vulcan-ed the Vulcan Mistress pointing out he was the logical choice to let himself get beat around the head – but I had to send him into a trap. He'll say he don't need to forgive me, but I know I'm not going to forgive myself for a long, long time.

"Hey, Doc!" Sickbay's quiet but for the faint whine and cheep of Phlox's freaky pet collection. No raised voices; no noisy human whining or complaining, no over-cheerful Denobulan lectures going on. "Where's the patient?"

"For the sake of my sanity as much as his own, Lieutenant Reed has been released to quarters, Commander." He says it happily and heck, it's a big relief. If Malcolm's bitching and whining, he's okay. It's when he's quiet, taking doctor's orders all obedient, like a proper patient, you know he's really hurt.

"He's – he's gonna be alright, isn't he?" I can't help it. There's something so compassionate and understanding in the way he's looking at me that I tear up. Phlox wraps a hand – big, slightly rubbery yet surprisingly gentle – around my wrist.

"The bruising will fade, and the cuts are healing nicely. He'll be sore for a few days – with the resultant unfortunate effect on his temper – but there's no permanent damage. Our Mister Reed is a resilient young man, Commander. It'll take more than a Suliban beating to put _him_ down."

"Yeah, he's tough." I hope I'm not gushing the way I think I am. Phlox tugs me to lean against a biobed and I swear there's a moment I almost don't recognise him. That friendly face sure looks different without its smile.

"Physically, there's nobody on board stronger - despite his propensity for missing meals – than Lieutenant Reed." He strokes his chin with his free hand. Has he been studying body language in the mess again? "And bruised ribs are no match for modern painkillers, but – forgive me, Commander, but there's no cure yet been found for a broken heart."

"Huh?" God dammit! Am I the last person on this bucket of bolts to realise I'm in love with the man?

"Despite appearances to the contrary Commander, Malcolm is not an unfeeling man: in fact, he hides an extremely sensitive soul beneath his military bearing."

Facing Malcolm's daddy someday won't be as embarrassing as this, 'cause I won't mind being rude to Captain Reed. "Phlox, I know you're real fond of Malcolm…"

"As are a great many people, judging by the number of enquiries about his health I've been answering in the last two hours." I never knew the happiest guy on the ship could look so damn menacing. "Anyone who hurts Lieutenant Reed will answer to the whole ship's company, Commander. Please remember that."

Now this has gone from embarrassing to plain surreal. "Is that a threat, Doc?"

When he smiles at me again it's like his face gets smaller, as if his ridges actually retract into his face. "Not at all, Commander. I'm just trying to limit the amount of work I'll have to do if your intentions toward Malcolm Reed don't run beyond a roll in the straw."

"Hay, Doc." Am I getting pedantic? If that's the result of too much time with Malcolm – I'll live with it. "You mean a roll in the hay."

He goes cross-eyed when you correct him, and I can't be mad – or even more than slightly embarrassed – when he's looking like that; kind of reminds me of my niece Sarah when she's real puzzled by something, and yes, okay, I know she's only five. "And since you're askin', I think my intentions run way beyond that."

"You _think_?" His eyes uncross, and that's bad, 'cause it means I'm being glared at like a dangerous new virus he needs to wipe out. "Are you in love with the lieutenant or not?"

"Yes." I can't stop a great big goofy smile breaking out, and I don't want to. It feels so good to finally say it – to understand what's been niggling away at the back of my mind for so long. "Hot damn! I'm in love with Malcolm Reed."

"Then no threats are necessary." Oh yeah, that's Phlox. I'm so high on my fluffy little cloud I'd forgotten he was standing there, hands clasped, watching me with a funny indulgent little smile on his face. "Perhaps you might share that momentous piece of news with Mister Reed himself? He could probably use a little cheering up."

That's a good idea. I should have thought of it.

I'll go do it. Right now.


End file.
